JACKIE BEAT "WEIGHS IN" ON POPE AND SCHIAVO!

My L.A. sister Jackie Beat (www.jackiebeatrules.com) kindly allowed me to re-print her inlosang.com advice column here and you can see, that whore is still off her rocker. (Forgive me, but I don't know how to correct whatever it is that turns her apostrophes into "aEtm's" by the time it reaches me. OK, I'm practiacally computer-illiterate.) After rocking electro dancefloors worldwide with last year's FUCKING ON THE DANCEFLOOR from their REALLY RICH ITALIAN SATANISTS ep (my fav was the definitive new wave cut ASYMETRIC), Jackie just finished recording her band Dirty Sanchez's first full length album. But back to her advice column:

Dear Little Miss Know-It-All,
In light of the recent drama surrounding Terri Schiavo, would you please remind your millions of readers to make sure their wills are ready in case the unthinkable happens.

Concerned in Carson

Dear Concerned,
Yes and I will also take this opportunity to tell those close to me that should I become braindead, NEVER REMOVE MY FEEDING TUBE!  And it should be big enough to handle all the stuff that I've had to cut out in order to lose weight like pepperoni pizza, double bacon cheeseburgers with avocado, chicken nachoes, onion rings, chili cheese fries and German chocolate cake. Oh, and don’t forget mama’s Diet Dr. Pepper!  Thanks.

Dear Little Miss Know-It-All,
I can’t believe that Pope John Paul II is dead.  I didn’t even know he was sick!  I’ve been crying all week and was wondering how are you dealing with this earth-shattering news?

Signed,
So Sad in Studio City

Dear Sad,
I am in shock.  While the world lost a much-loved, well-respected religious leader -- I lost my best friend.  For obvious reasons J.P. (that’s what I called him) wanted our friendship to be on the D.L., so no one really knew that we were buds.  But we were.  Best buds.  I’ll never forget the night we met.  I was vacationing in Rome.  After a wonderful dinner of spaghetti and meatballs, salad with roma tomatoes and REAL Italian dressing, lots of Chianti and the best garlic bread I’ve ever had, my friends all wanted to go back to our charming hotel to get a good night’s sleep so we’d be fresh the next morning for our early sightseeing tour.  But it was my first time in Italy and I was too excited to call it a night so I went clubbing.

To say that Italian men are sexy is like saying that I am a good drag queen -- it’s the understatement of all understatements, you know?  As I danced to the annoying Euro-disco music, swarthy men with bedroom eyes put their big dirty hands all over my snow white skin.  Fingers disappeared into me and tongues lapped the sweat from my body as every brown eye in the room was fixed on my young undulating American body.  Suddenly, a towering man in an Armani suit and black plastic wrap-around sunglasses approached me.  He bent down and whispered into my ear, “His excellency would like you to join him in the VVIP area.† Now I have blown more than my share of B-list celebrities like your Stephen Dorffs and your Stephen Baldwins in Hollywood’s varous VIP areas, but I have never been in, let alone heard of, a VVIP area.  I grabbed my purse and went with Mr. Body Guard.  “Hmmm, I wonder who requested the honor of my presence?†I mused as we worked our way through the labyrinth of the club.  Sophia Loren?  Pavarotti?  Ciccolina?

Imagine my surprise when those red velvet curtains parted not unlike the red sea to reveal the motherfuckin’ Pope!  For some reason I just started laughing hysterically and J.P. rolled his yes, shook his head and said, “I know, I know.  Sit down, you bitch.† He was wearing a Marilyn Manson t-shirt that had been bejewelled with Swarovski crystals (that should tell you how long ago this was!) and a pair of baggy black Dickies with a Deadsy patch right at the crotch.  I sat down and we drank Appletinis (again, cut me some slack, this was a while ago!) and snorted the best coke in the world which he kept in that big gawdy ring of his, of course.  We also made out, but the sexual chemistry just wasn’t there.  It was pretty obvious as we made fun of people’s outfits and recited dialogue from “Showgirls†that we were meant to be best girlfriends.  He called me J.B. and I called him J.P. and when the sun came up he vanished like a Catholic Cinderella, leaving me with nothing but memories and a throbbing headache.  I cabbed it back to the hotel and got maybe two hours sleep before going on our scheduled sightseeing tour.  When our bus pulled up to the Vatican, I was hoping maybe I’d see J.P., but I didn’t.  The tour guide informed us that he was “resting†and I can’t blame him, honey.  That bitch can party!

I don’t remember telling J.P. my birthday but every year an amazing present would arrive from him -- a Limoge pill box in the shape of a human heart, bootleg concert videos of KISS, a beautiful baby boy with blue eyes.  And he would call, too.  We would talk for hours and laugh and make fun of people and he would tell me his problems and how the church really pissed him off sometimes.  Now he’s gone.  No more laughter, no more bitch-fests, no more gossiping and the saddest of all, no more amazing gifts.  J.P., I will miss you.



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